


(Very) good friends

by myhamsterisademon



Series: Tumblr Works [1]
Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Not gonna lie they're kinda my otp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:06:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: Two jerks being jerks





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lucien and Beauchamp are surprisingly fun to write!

“Well, my dear?”

“Well, what?”

“You asked me to meet you here, if I recall,” Beauchamp said, arching an eyebrow and staring down at Lucien, who was curiously rummaging in one of his drawers. “You mentioned an affair of extreme importance. I am growing sick with worry, I must admit. That is fragile, by the by, please be careful.”

Lucien shot a disdainful glance to the little antique wooden cigarette-case he had been handling and threw himself on Beauchamp’s couch, stretching his legs, one of them landing across the journalist’s.

“Sick with worry?” he cried. “How so?”

“Eh! You seemed so horribly serious, I wondered if I had not offended you in some way. You politicians are like that – always ready to find an offense even in the most innocent jest.”

“Oh, be careful!” said Debray, a hint of a smile on his thin, pale lips, “be careful,  _monsieur le journaliste_! But you are quite right, in some way,” he continued, moving closer to Beauchamp, “I demand reparation. ‘Tis something concerning your most recent article –”

“My most recent article!” interrupted Beauchamp, laughing out loud and laying his hand on Debray’s shoulder. “Which one, dearest?”

“You know which one. Do not play the fool. Not with me. I shall not tolerate it.”

“Yes, I do,” replied the journalist, a playful, mocking smile on his lips, “you are right, I do know. But, my dear friend, since when do you read what I write? I thought you despised my profession.”

“I do indeed,” Lucien said, “but, occasionally, I like to bend my own rules. You know, for the sake of seeing how things are going in the world. Unfortunately for you, I had decided that the article which would have the honour of being read by me,” (Beauchamp smiled), “should be the one where you so cruelly mock my dear madame de Berthelot for her tastes in fashion. Therefore, on her behalf, here I am, rightfully demanding reparation.”

“I did not write that piece myself,” Beauchamp replied, willing to play along, “it was anonymous, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, but your journal published it.”

Beauchamp hummed under his breath and drew himself closer still to Debray, brushing his leg in the process and running his hand on Lucien’s arm.

“And how am I supposed to ask for your forgiveness?” he said, keeping his voice low and husky.

“Oh, you will  _beg_ for it.”


	2. Chapter 2

A breeze flows from the open windows, making the light, white curtains flow gently. Lucien’s bedroom is magnificent in the afternoon glow, the soft colours shining soothingly. It’s a summer day and both of them should be somewhere else – not here, laying on the bed, their legs tangled together and only wearing their chemises and breeches, each of them holding a glass of fresh wine and sharing a basket of exotic fruits, courtesy of Hermine Danglars, and sweetmeats. 

“Nice,” Beauchamp says, moving his glass in tiny, circular movements, a thin veil of condensation glistening on the champagne flute. “Somewhat bitter, but this is quite nice.” 

Lucien stares at him, arching an eyebrow. 

“ _Nice_?” Lucien repeats. “Is that all you have to say? This is a Veuve Clicquot, Beauchamp. I bought it especially for you. I expect more than a frigid  _nice_.”

It’s his friend’s turn to cock an eyebrow at him.

“ _You_ bought it?” Beauchamp says, sarcasm and incredulity heavy in his voice and Lucien kicks him, while the other man merely laughs and shakes his head at him, dodging Lucien’s blows easily. “ _Stop_ ,” he says after a while, still laughing, “you’ll make me spill this  _expensive_ and classy champagne which  _you_ absolutely chose and paid for –”

“Well, next time we meet,  _you_ shall bring the victuals, and we shall see if you can afford something  _decent_.”

Beauchamp hums lowly and doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes and just lays there, perfectly silent, for once. It’s a pleasant change, Lucien thinks, still slightly indignant. Beauchamp is rarely silent – always witty and sarcastic, usually trying to outsmart Lucien with his rhetoric and cynicism. Not that he ever manages to, of course; but apparently it is a question of principle and honour, for him, to try and outwit Lucien.

It almost always starts with one of them provoking the other, usually under Château-Renaud’s instigation, who adores setting one up against the other (Raoul really seems innocent and somewhat aloof, but all his friends perfectly know that he is as wicked as any one of them).

And then they end up arguing while Raoul watches them, smoking a cigar, a complacent and amused smile on his lips. Lucien does not know whether Raoul has caught the glances, whether he has understood that Beauchamp and Debray’s friendship has crossed certain borders, whether he incites them because he is aware of how and where their discussions usually meet an end – although he probably suspects it. Neither of them has never been subtle, really, but Château-Renaud isn’t exactly famous for being observing. Or for caring about this sort of things.

“You haven’t spoken in a while,” Lucien finally says, now quite fed up with the silence. He stretches his hand to snatch a sweet from the little bowl between them. “I am getting concerned.”

“Shut up,” Beauchamp answers flatly. “I am out of energy. It is all your fault, really.”

“You should not have challenged me,” Lucien replies, filling Beauchamp’s glass again and passing him a biscuit. “We both knew that you would lose the race.”

“Yes, but you  _seemingly_ forgot to mention that Morrel would participate, with that blasted horse of his; what is it called?  _Médéah_ or something like that. Really, Lucien, that was most impertinent – oh, do not laugh – yes, that was most impolite of you. I am quite vexed.”

Debray laughs and shakes his head.

“Your  _Cléopâtre_ is as good as his  _Médéah_ , Beauchamp,” he says affectionately. “You are just jealous, that is all.”

The journalist shoots him a scornful look and Lucien grins at him, tipping his flute.

Five minutes later, he can hear Beauchamp’s breathing getting heavier and, when he looks at him, his eyes are closed.

“Are you falling asleep?” Lucien says, hitting Beauchamp on the shoulder. “Do not fall asleep here. This is my bedroom, not a hotel. If you want to sleep, get up and go home.”

Beauchamp groans, loudly, once and then twice. He gets up, stretches himself a couple of times and then starts gathering his scattered clothes, trying to distinguish his from Lucien’s. When he has found them, he doesn’t put them on, however, and just sits there, on the edge of the bed, silent.

“Well? Are you going to leave?” Debray says, impatiently, perfectly aware that he sounds rude. Not that Beauchamp cares about niceties – he himself has kicked out Lucien from his house at impossible hours many times. 

“Do you know what Morcerf asked me today?” Beauchamp says instead of answering, in a strangely concerned voice.

“Which one?”

“The lad. The Viscount. Albert.”

“What about him?” Lucien inquires.

“He asked me if I was in love with you.”

“Oh,” Lucien says, at first. And then it hits him. And, while a slight dread starts to make its way into his chest, he asks: “And what did you tell him?”

Beauchamp shoots him a significant look and shakes his head, starts to put on his clothes. 

“Really, Debray,” he says, back to his sharp, slightly derisive tone (Lucien is glad to hear it again, more than he cares to admit even to himself), “what answer did you expect me to give? I told him that no, I am not the least in the world in love with you and that, in fact, I despise and hate you.”

“That is a  _lie_ ,” Lucien protests, feigning to be hurt. “Hate me? Why, however hardened your heart may be, you cannot hate and despise at the same time!”

Beauchamp doesn’t even roll his eyes at that, he simply keeps dressing up.

“Why would he think you are in love with me?” Debray finally asks, seeing that his friend has no intention of continuing his story.

Beauchamp merely shrugs.

“He is a romantic, I suppose. He sees love everywhere he goes,” he says.

“Albert, a romantic?” Lucien scoffs. “My friend, he is far too young and inexperienced to be a romantic.”

Beauchamp shakes his head.

“The whole point of being romantic is to be young and inexperienced,” he says.

“Ah, but you see,” is the answer, “youth nowadays is born skeptical. Young men come into this world with a thorough dislike of religion, a contempt for their fellow young men and for anything remotely romantic. And then, as they grow up, they lose their bravado and start falling in love like young, naïve country girls and  _with_ young, naïve country girls. They are born cold and pragmatic, and die in love and passionate.”

“Debray,” Beauchamp says, matter-of-factly, “you are full of bullshit.”

 

“But you aren’t in love with me, are you?” Lucien suddenly asks, three days later, when Beauchamp and him are having breakfast together, after one of their nights. Beauchamp is wearing one of Lucien’s nightgowns and, frankly, it looks ridiculous on him. He still wears it, though, because he knows Lucien absolutely detests it.

The man looks up from the journal he is reading and cocks an eyebrow.

“How narcissistic of you, Lucien,” he says, archly. “The only thing I am in love with is my journal. I cannot possibly fall in love with anybody, least of all you.”

“One day,” Lucien says, buttering a toasted bread, “you will meet some fine lady, you will fall in love with her, marry her, find yourself a mistress two years after the wedding and live a perfectly common, ridiculously boring life. You will die regretting everything you have ever done, but won’t have time to realise it.”

There is silence.

Beauchamp stares at him for a second and then puts down his newspaper with a harsh, irritated gesture (knocking the pot of jam off the table in the process, damn him) and gets up.

“I’m going to get dressed,” he says, and leaves the room.

Lucien sips his coffee, satisfied with himself.


End file.
